GiaToldMe

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

So during this time of scrambling to try to find my thyroid medication that is not a narcotic or controlled substance (Jeez, that's something I do not say often, hardy har har....) I've been ruminating on the killing of Michael Brown.

Is it so implausible to believe that BOTH Mike Brown AND police officer Darren Wilson, MADE MISTAKES? Maybe the EXACT equal amount of mistakes?
I'm talking human mistakes having zero to do with the amount of melanin contained in either of their chemical makeup?
Talk about everything having to be black or white!
Sometimes tragedy is just that. Pure, biting, searing hot, inexplicable, tragedy.

But, then I start to really ponder..................
And this is the thought that sickens me the most:
Every single minute leading up to that day of the shooting, was shaping up for the following.
If, and when, a potential, tragedy happens it would NEVER, EVER, EVER, be viewed as partially to blame by "either side".
I think the whole system and community resources (ie politics) ramped the police force up, who enjoyed the power immensely, and then panicked when one officer, by himself, faced with his own real fear, made stupid and fatal mistakes that killed an unarmed young man, also incurring his own tangible fear, who made stupid mistakes as well.
(Run on sentences are my thing sometimes.)

Look, cops want waaaaaaay too much "stand at attention" respect and superhero reverie. Those things turn some of them into edgy, easily agitated, assholes.
Some kids want to act like they are invincible douchebags, walking in the middle of the street with cars coming, because they can, cursing in front of people and babies that don't want to hear it, and feeling like nothing can EVER happen to them because stupid stuff always happens to other kids.

Do I think if it was ME that shot an unarmed kid be him black or white on the street that I'd have a grand jury deciding if should be tried?
No, no, nononononono!
I might've been born in the morning folks, just not yesterday morning.
My trial (or plea bargain) would arrive faster than my fucking thyroid medication!!

Of course cops get special treatment. Always have, always will
But, furfucksakes, things in that neighborhood (and a lot of others across the nation and world by the way) were, and are, stewing like a two day old can of piss warm beer, with cigarette butts floating in it, after a hotel party, with a buncha rockstars and their chick minions passed out around it.

It's being going on like that way too long and it's still is, and no one does a real fucking thing to help clean it up.
Dump the beer and recycle the fucking can.

I'll tell you what it gonna take.
It's simple.

Mean Aliens.
Or, Zombies.

Those are the only two things that will facilitate scenarios that will make everyone forget about, all the ridiculous things that piss us off about one another. Things that cause such deeply saddening and emotionally draining chaos in every fucking community all over the freakin' planet.

Those two things, Mean Aliens or Zombies,
(Oh man, hopefully one or the other, not BOTH together!), will bring us together as the human race to fight for a common cause and force us not to care about each others sexual orientation, religion, skin color, job status, uniforms, push up bras, tattoos, etc..............

I'm in all honesty, from the bottom of my heart, praying, really, really praying, for Mean Aliens OR Zombies.

There's seriously a better chance that those things will show up sooner than my fucking non-narcotic THYROID MEDICATION!!!

I can only say when it comes, its an overused, rehashed, description: An immense wave of crippling sadness.

How did all the great writers come up with new and fresh descriptions of pain, wistful mourning and loneliness?

It’s like when I hear people say that, “Every band sounds like THAT band.”

How in this time on the planet could anyone at all have an original thought? Melody? Idea? Burst of inspiration? Haven't they all been used, quoted, regurgitated already?

I remember the night our relationship changed, just like it was yesterday.

I can’t remember the color underpants I’m wearing right this second, as I type, but I remember that night.

Almost every minute.

There was a small party planned at my friend’s house during winter break my freshman year of college.

A bunch of us were headed over to a couple’s house that had been together for years.

“The Brenda and Eddie of Harborfields Class of ’84”.

“Eddie” was my friend since my first day of kindergarten. One of my favorite dudes. Always an old soul.

“Brenda” was his amazingly sweet and kind girl, who showed up late to the shindig that was high school, in the beginning of 10th grade I think.

They met.

They courted.

They were together since.

Seriously.

They “got an apartment with deep pile carpet” in Commack.

It was the first of our coupled friends to get their own place outside of college dorm rooms.

We were all so excited for them.

So grown up.

I had my mom buy me a bottle of Korbel Brut “Champagne” as a housewarming gift to be hospitable.

I tied a bow around it.

Classy.

It was a freezing cold night. Must have been middle of December. I remember there was snow on the ground that had frozen over. Little glistening crystals of ice coated everything and made it all so pretty and festive.

I scraped off my windshield and drove my white ’76 Chevy van to the party.

It was a basement apartment around the back of a house.

The stairs down were slippery from a broken gutter that caused patches of ice.

“Eddie” was sprinkling salt-melt on them when I got there.

“Heyyyyyyy! Alright!! Glad you’re here Gee!! Drinks are flowin’” He hugged me and I attempted to hand him the “champagne”.

“Such sophistication Gee! Thanks. Give that to “Brenda”, I’m sure we’ll get to it later.”

Looked like he guzzled a glass of cherry kool-aid and it stained his lips that color permanently.

Shining skin. Light he was lit from within.

That hairline. Perfectly mussed locks grown a little longer than when he was in high school.

His hair still with the natural highlights from the summer, no? Was that possible?

Tiny little white scar over his eyebrow, that made a tiny slash right into it, where the hair didn’t grow back.

What the fuck kind of beer was I drinking?

Once a lot of friends split. “Brenda and Eddie” sprawled out on their love-seat for two.

Seemed like everyone that was left at the party was paired off one way or another.

“Eddie” put on a movie.

Turned off the lights so the room glowed only from the TV.

American Werewolf in London.

It seemed as though all the make-out couples had monopolized the furniture.

Fuck it.

I sat on the floor with my back against the sofa. My knees pulled up against my chest.

Griesing sat next to me.

Just to be sociable.

He had nowhere to sit either.

One couple were already in the bedroom screwing around on the leftover coats.

Not a lot of options for the young and horny.

The movie had just started, and he and I started wise cracking the flick.

“Yeah, I’m sure I would ask anyone why there’s a pentagram painted in what might be blood on the wall of a pub, when its freezing outside, and there’s no where else to have a fucking beer. I’m just keeping my trap shut and going with it. That;s for damn sure!”

Griesing exploding with that addictive high pitched laugh.

“Riiiiiight? I knooooow? Who’s fucking up that chance for a beer on a cold night in the middle of nowhere England?”

The two of us cracking up. He punched my shoulder. I punched him back.

In that nicely buzzed, kind of dream like haze, it seemed as though everyone was getting into the movie. It quieted down.

It was one of those films you could watch a thousand times and never get tired of it.

I shifted a bit and stretched my legs out straight under the coffee table.

Putting my palms on either side of me on the “deep pile carpet”.

I’m not sure exactly when. I mean I don’t have a timestamp for it or anything.....

(I think in real life no one is supposed to remember such mundane details. They’re good for books and movies, but real memories often weed out the seemingly unimportant stuff.)

But, around that time, I felt the side of Griesing’s right hand brush my left pinky.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get that weird swish of goose bumps and flippy stomach that makes your head light and you swallow really hard without warning.

“Wanna beer?” he whispered.

“Yes please.”

Griesing got up to go to the kitchen. I ran my hand over the spot he had been sitting. It was still warm. I could feel the cold coming from under the doorway just a little. Every once in awhile a tiny hint of chilly, winter breeze.

I hadn’t felt it when he was sitting next to me.

He opened the fridge. Light spilled into the room.

“Hey! Jay, what’s the deal, it’s fucking bright. Close the fridge!”

“We need a beeah moron. Any left?”

“You see any Einstein?”

“No. (Giggle) Maybe you’re hiding ‘em.”

“If you don’t see any, then there’s none left. Gia brought a bottle of champagne, open that.”

Griesing futzed around the fridge.

“Bottle of bubbly with a bow!!! Niiiiiiiiice, heeeeeee-yeah!”

He popped the bottle and some fizzed up and over. He quickly put his mouth over the top.

“Whoops. Good thing I was here to catch it! Could’ve been a catastrophe!”

I smiled.

Griesing closed the fridge, came back he sat down next to me.

Wait.

Wait.

Did he, was he a lot closer?

Nah.

Stupid.

He took a light swig of the “champagne” and held his mouth over the top. Then he smiled. Those lips. Those cherry kool-aid lips. What the fuck?

He handed me the bottle.

“Usually one must go to a bowling alley to meet a woman of your stature.” he recited in a bad aristocratic accent.

“Yeah, well a real woman could stop you drinking.” I snapped back smiling.

At once, in unison, we said, “She’d have to be a real BIG woman!”

Both of us died laughing. Seriously like tears laughing.

“YOU GUYS ENOUGH. Shut the fuck up!!!

We both muffled our giggles and tried not to look at each other. With only the light of the TV, if we made eye contact we’d crack up. Both of us losing it.

Passing the bottle of champagne back and forth, we continued to watch the movie.

There were some pretty racy parts that made me uncomfortable, for what ever reason.

Like watching a ballgame with my dad and a tampon commercial would come on.

What was the big deal?

One of life’s unexplained mysteries.

Life’s unexplained mystery, just like the moment Griesing slid his hand over and took mine lacing our fingers together.

My heart stopped.

Long fingers, not particularly big hands for a ballplayer. good grip though.

Those are the things I thought.

Then, a thought so loud screaming in my head I was sure everyone in the room could hear it. Everyone in the world could hear it!

“IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING? IS IT? IS THIS A DREAM. IF IT IS I HOPE WE DON’T WAKE UP RIGHT NOW! I’M SERIOUS?!!!!!”

We started to rub each others fingers and palms and a some point he switched hands and put his arm around me.

I leaned into him.

With my free hand I picked up the bottle of bubbly and took a small swig. Then I’d hold it to his lips. He’d swig and smile at me.

“IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING? IS IT? IS THIS A DREAM. IF IT IS I HOPE WE DON’T WAKE UP RIGHT NOW! I’M SERIOUS?!!!!!”

Griesing? Me? Just bizarre.

Whoever was making out with who on the sofa decided to shift positions and kneed me in the back of the head.

“Ow, Shit! I hope it’s worth it.” I whispered.

I glanced behind and up a little to see if I could get a better vantage point.

“IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING? IS IT? IS THIS A DREAM. IF IT IS I HOPE WE DON’T WAKE UP RIGHT NOW! I’M SERIOUS?!!!!!”

I noticed right away, we kissed exactly alike.

That night almost 30 years ago was the first time we, well, we, you know......

He asked me to follow him home after we fell asleep and woke up groggily on the “deep pile carpet” both of us shaking off the haze.

I stayed over his house in the basement.

Slept next to him, cuddled together in his bed.

Slipped out in the morning when it was just getting blue outside, before he woke up.

I saw him a few more times at different parties over that winter break, trying to play it cool.

“Hey, sorry I didn’t call you, it’s been.......”

“No big deal, it’s fine.”

Walk away, go to the keg.

Act like you don’t care. Act like you don’t give a shit.

Two hours later making out in a closet.

End up back sleeping in his basement.

On and off (much more off, totally more off) for 30 years, with some form of that sexy routine.

Never cheating on respective others if we had them.

Just knowing if we weren’t with anyone for real, and we were alone.....well.

And NEVER, I mean NEVER basing our relationship on anything but true-blue, you can tell me anything, I’ll be there if you need me anytime, friendship.

I can not believe we never fucked that up.

I can not believe it lasted all those years.

Longer than any other part of the whole thing.

(Hahaha)

It’s amazing that the really serious conversation we once had actually stuck.

“No matter what, I don’t want this to get in the way of our friendship. It’s too important.”

“I know. I could deal without the other stuff, I mean it’s a lot of fun, don’t get me wrong, but our friendship I couldn’t deal with losing.”

Griesing and me.

Two fully grownup little children made that work!!!

How did we do that? How did we not screw that up?

We both, combined, into one, had the maturity of a 12 year old (and that’s overshooting), yet, somehow we pulled that off.

Just a couple of years ago we were in a bar with our significant others having a blast all together.

Hanging out. Laughing. Shots!! Him talking baseball with My Old Man and his buddy Lombo. Me talking shit about some skank in corner with Griesing’s beautiful, funny, chick and Lombo’s wife (one of my favorite people) Joanna. We were laughing at the skank’s crispy hair.

I kept hugging him. Squeezing and laughing and smooching him all over his face like a Grandma does to her Grandkid.

Him laughing. Swirling me around. Dipping me. Squeezing me back.

“You know”, he said to me “You’re one of my favorite people ever. I love you.”

“Heeeeeeyyyyy, c’mon, you know A LOT of people, you’re the fucking mayor...... you are the Greenlawn Water District Stud”

“I KNOOOOW! Riiiiight? Heeeeeee! But seriously, no seriously, you really are. One of my favorite people of all time.”

“That’s funny, ‘cause you’re one of my favorite people of all time!! Griesing, you know how much I love you you?!!!!”

“How much?”

“Let’s put it this way, I wish I had a dime for every bit of love for you I have.”

“Heeeeeee! Really poor Arthur reference dummy!”

“You kidding? It’s 750 million dollars worth of love!”

“I think one of the horses just fainted. Heeeeeeeee!! See? No one will get that but you!! Know what’s weird? It’s so easy to say I love you now. I have no trouble with it. Oh God. Gee, does that mean I’m a grown up? Does that mean WE are grownups?”

I smiled at him and grabbed his ass,

“No dope, it just means we’re drunk and you had a brain tumor albeit one that’s better but..........”

About a month and a half ago when he was sick again. Really sick. I mean sick enough that I had to keep reminding him who I was, until he made me write my name down on the inside cover of his suduko book, we sat together in his basement.

He looked so tired. I rubbed his back and he closed his eyes.

I knelt in front of him. Taking his face in my hands. Looking him straight into those ridiculous blue eyes.

“Why don’t you lay back on me and I’ll rub your arms like after you used to pitch? I’ll scoot over on the couch and get you comfy, okay?”

He squinted back at me.

“Okay.” with a tiny smile.

I positioned myself behind him and he laid up against me.

I caressed his head for awhile humming “Wild Horses”.

Still with that great hairline.

His breathing calmed. I felt him sinking into a comfortable position. I was kissing the top of his head dripping tears on his scalp, trying not to shake. I didn’t want him to know I was losing it. Crying so hard I was almost retching.

Monday, September 22, 2014

I went to the mailbox today kind of in a doleful, hazy, dream.Another rough one today for whatever reason.Ha.A million reasons.I opened the mailbox and saw a padded manilla envelope I assumed was for our wonderful upstairs neighbor.Sorting through what was left in the mailbox, I glanced once more at the envelope.It was addressed to me.I pulled it out and read the label.My address.GIA CERONEThe return address.MERYL DOVZAKI stood outside in the warm wind holding the envelope I know contained beautiful little treasures she wanted me to have.Tiny trinkets of affection attached to the hope that they would lift me up just a bit.But I didn't open it.Instead, I sat on the curb like I did when I was a little girl on Forest Drive and turned the envelope over and over in my hands.Rubbing my thumb against the front."Fragile" (must be Italian, I thought with a smirk) written in swirling artistic cursive on the front.Beautiful 9/11 stamps lined up perfectly.I even smelled the friggin thing.I grasped that envelope and I wept today.Stop being a pussy Gia.Yeah? Well FUCK OFF.I cried holding that envelop from my friend Meryl.It had been in her hands a few days earlier. She had written the addresses and "Fragile".She had taken the time to seal it, buy stamps, and bring it to her post office over a thousand miles away from where I sat at that very moment.I have this friend, I thought.This beautiful, funny, tough, savvy, true blue friend, who goes through her own shitload of personal, physical problems that she can't get a straight answer about.Doctors are SUPPOSED to do that.That's ALL they're SUPPOSED to do.They tell you what's wrong and help fix it. Nope. Not yet anyway, not for awhile.I have this friend who sent me this envelope."HANDLE WITH CARE", it says.That's what she's doing to and for me.Handling with care.And me, I'm sitting out on the curb crying because this envelope shows me just how much she really, really does.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

My dearest friend, (next to My Old Man and my Sissy) lives in Northampton England. Ad and I are actually related.Not in the normal, my Mom's, great aunt's, husband's, step kid, kinda way.No, no, it's more straight forward than that.Adam is my brother. However, there IS a story behind our kinship.

The Scientific Explanation Of Simptoss and Genimi DNAEons upon eons ago, in a parallel universe, two similar forms of energy ("simptae") converged to create a "simptoss".This simptoss stayed static for awhile, kind of suspended, if you will, in said universe for quite a long time, (more eons.)Eventually, the parallel universe imploded and merged with what we consider our present universe.Oh my, you see it's all very scientific. Really, too complicated for you, my dear reader to grasp.Okay. stay with me. Basically the simple version is, the simptoss split apart when it came in contact with the edge of the earth's atmosphere, changing the original chemical makeup of when they first converged, ever so slightly, and were catapulted, sadly, their separate ways. Science, my friends is not always happy.Anywhoooo. The simptae immediately each found a safe place to stay viable, by permeating each of our (Adam's Mom and my Mom's) DNA; albeit without their knowledge.Our Mothers, while thousand of miles and continents apart, didn't know they had "Gemini" altered DNA in their systems.So, each of our Mom's eventually got knocked up, by similar looking and behaved men.And while not born on the same birthday or year, the two little bundles of joy (Ad & Me) were indeed brother and sister. While I know that doesn't sound very logical, it is in-fact absolutely true.Science is not always logical either, friends. So we, he and I are Brothah From Anothah Muthah or Sistah From Anothah Mistah if you prefer.In the present day, due to the incredible leaps in technology, Adam and I found each other through a mutual friend on Facebook.You're laughing?The Facebook connection made you laugh ? Not the simptoss explanation?I will never understand you unsimptossic humans.That's my story and I'm sticking' to it.So, where was I? Oh yeah!! Now Ad and I speak like 407 times a day through our phones and computers and we trade information like two washerwomen.I've always been an Anglophile. England is a very fucking cool place.Adam lives there. Northampton, England with his beautiful wife Jemma, his adorable daughter (my Goddaughter) Daisy and Squeak the cat.Northampton is like an hour north of London, but it might as well be next-door.We are in touch constantly and during this World Cup have managed to watch games together sorta, kinda.It's been really, really cool.Jemma and Ad's friendship (brotherhood), I realized, is something that had been missing from my life, and is now back where it belongs. I guess that's the only way to express it.When we're not watching soccer (football, what ever) we're comparing notes on our days.We'll look at maps of where each of us have been, and ask questions about history, people, food. you know normal boring stuff to everyone else, except us.For instance, he lived in Islip, England when he was younger.Reeeeeeally?? One of my paren't first apartment's,when i was a baby was in Islip, Long Island.I spent summers in the Hamptons, so did Adam. Thousands of miles apart.He's obsessed with American gangsters and serial killers.He and Jem gobble up the likes of Boardwalk Empire and "The Iceman" like Cornish Pasties on a cold night........NOTE: You didn't think I could get through a whole rambling story without referencing THE SHANNON at some point, in some way, did you? Gotcha bitches.........Gimme a Rose and Fred West documentary any day, any time.Pinky Blinders on BBC? Sign my ass up!!Fuck, I'm even into the sappy intrigue Downton Abbey brings me. Hell.I'd like to end Mary myself with my bare hands!What an annoying twat.But Sybill dies giving birth?Ridiculous.We also keep each other entertained, by constantly trying to one up each other.One moment acting all patriotic about our perspective countries, the next dissing them for their obvious weaknesses.But man oh man I'll tell you where England has us beat. Easily, hands down they have the best town names.Cities, villages, shires and hamlets.Old school names.Yeah, we copy a lot of them, and some of ours are uniquely stupid like my parent's hometown of "Hicksville".But the English, shit, they just rock the names of where ever they call home.I learned this one night when Adam and I were talking about funny phrases we think each of our countries have called our own.Linguistic peccadillos. Silly sayings. Charming little American language nuances, or them, there dumb things we think those English people say all the time, ya' know?Jemma has naturally embraced the the perfect way to poo poo something in American (New York-eeeze actually.)Just use the word you wish to brush off and then add "shm" or "schm" before it.Adam will ask her if she feels like Pizza or Kebob for dinner.Jemma immediately snaps back, "Pizza Schmizza lets have kebob." in her sweet, Mary Poppin'seque English accent.LIKE A FREAKIN' BOSS!!Jemma rules.One night before signing off and bidding Ad, goodnight, I jokingly fired off, "Tally ho old chap and all that!"Adam LOL'd (remember we message each other to save on phone bills.)He replied, "No one really says that Gee. I haven't heard that except in old movies on the telly. Oh, but you know we live pretty close to a little town called Titty Ho."Screech the record.Whaaaat? Whaaaat? Huh, huh, erm,,,,,,Now, look I'm pretty sure if you know even the smallest smidgen about me, you know I'm a 12 year old boy in a big, old chick's body.Titty Ho?!!TITTY HO?!!!I started to giggle.I mean really giggle.I started typing away like a maniac to get back to Adam about this delicious revelation.Alright, look, instead of trying to explain everything I wrote, I'm simply going to cut and paste my actual response.This is what I wrote back:Ad, There is no fucking way you really have a town called Titty-Ho. I mean it's a real town? If you mailed a letter there, you address it Town: Titty-Ho?What do the boys in middle school think when they finally get to the point they know what it means and that it is actually where they live? At that age just telling someone where they live would give them immediate and non stop boners! Poor kids.Of course my sick brain goes right to the origins of the name..............The Legend Of Titty HoThere was a famous whorehouse back in the day and they had a real salty, well worn whore named Elaine. Elaine had been whoring for like 50 years. The longest a whore ever worked.Her secret? She would ONLY titty-fuck!You wanted a blow-job with Elaine? Nope, sorry, just titty fucks.A simple handy? Nuh uh, titty fucks is Elaine's thing - only!Potential John: I want Elaine for a half & half, cowgirl style with a Flaming Amazon to wrap it up! I'll pay triple! I'll pay quadruple!!House Madam: Absolutely not!! This is Elaine Sir. Elaine and her famous titty-fucks or nothing at all!!Years passed and finally, one day, a young whore went to wake Elaine up for her day shift of titty-fucks.Much to the younger whore's dismay, Elaine had passed. Died peacefully in her sleep.The whorehouse was overcome with grief and sadness.The whole VILLAGE was distraught! Elaine was so popular and famous for her titty-fucks-only policy.It was a sad, sad day.The morning of Elaine's funeral, the whole town showed up. Not a dry eye in the house.The mayor stood up and gave a heartfelt and caring eulogy. Everyone was deeply, deeply touched.Then in a surprise move to everyone, the mayor unveiled a proclamation:"Here ye, here ye!!! From this day forward, our little quaint hamlet of Beigeville will be renamed and forever be referred to as the Village of TITTY HO in honor of the wonderful Elaine. She was the best at what she did, and only did IT. Welcome one and all to TITTY-HO!"The EndThat's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Things haven't been so good in Gia-Ville. My heart hurts, my head is confused, my life feels empty and practically meaningless.
I'm a fucking mess.

Wowza!!! What an upbeat, feel good, start to a story. Bet you all are just dying to keep reading riiiiiiiiiight?
Well, it might be worth it to read on.
Writing it out makes me feel better for a little while, so humor me, do me a solid and keep reading.
Please.

My favorite person ever, my heroine, my whole heart was my Grandma. My Mom's Mom.
She was also bi-polar, manic depressive and completely out of her fucking mind.
I, however, never knew that. I was never privy to her destructive "ups".
I seem to remember once when she stayed over my house, I must've been six, I asked her why she wasn't getting out of bed at all for like days. She said she wasn't feeling well and needed to rest.
Made sense to me. When I was sick, I stayed home from school, in bed watching Mike Douglas and Match Game.
The "downs" were less destructive and easier to conceal I guess.

My Grandma loved me more than anything in her life.
I know it because she told me.

I don't want offend any of my family, but I remember it like it was five minutes ago. She and I were sitting in our basement on the couch and she took my face in her soft hands and turned it to hers.
"Listen Gia, you need to know this. You are my favorite. My absolute favorite. Don't go around telling your cousins, or anyone else in the family fuhgodsakes. I love them very much, but you are my favorite. Can you keep that a secret between us?"

I told you she was crazy.

But, at six or seven years old, it went into the vault and I've never put it on paper until now.

I knew it was monumental somehow.
It made my heart leap and soar.
It was everything.

I was eight when they found her dead, in her tiny apt. of a heart attack. She was always taking off, going crazy places at crazy times, so when my Mom and Aunt hadn't heard from her in a week, they didn't panic.
The neighbors in the upstairs apartment found her.
She was dead for three days.

Her heart gave out most likely they said, because of the multiple shock treatments she received over many years.
Those were the days of modern science when they just strapped her down, jammed a rubber ball into her mouth and hit her with all the voltage she could handle.
Wide awake, no comfort, on a cold metal table.
Sometimes she shit or piss herself.
Sometimes she'd get a little piece of her lip caught between the ball and her teeth and chomp a piece off.
Sometimes it's even fucking worked.
I mean short term memory completely gone, but she wasn't heading home to guzzle bleach again for the 12th time.
They tried every drug imaginable.
Lithium was the newest go-to miracle.
It didn't work for Grandma.
My Grandfather tried doctors all around the world.
Nothing worked for Grandma.

My Father had the incredibly brave, yet morbid task of identifying the body of his beloved mother in law, whom he affectionately referred to as "Headsy" because her head was so fucked up.
She would just laugh and punch his shoulder and say, "Bobby, you're so bad!"
My Dad gives great nicknames.

So yeah, Dad had to go identify my Grandma.
To this day, he's never discussed that the details out loud.

My Mother and Aunt, hell, the whole family was devastated.

I was devastated.
I was eight years old.

It was exactly at that time, I immediately began to obsess about killing myself.

I told no one.

It became abundantly clear that the hurt I was experiencing was too much for me to bear.
Plus, what kind of world was it going to be without my Grandma?
I stealthy snuck a steak knife out of the kitchen and hid it in my top dresser drawer.
Everyday I would take the knife out and press the tip to where I thought my heart was.
I'd apply a little pressure and a little more, and think,
"Just a little harder, you can do it."

Then I'd chicken out and hide the knife back beneath my undies.
I was eight and I felt I had nothing left to live for.
That's a fact.

Then, little by little my newish baby sister began to help me heal. I loved her so much, it slowly dawned on me if I ended it all, I wouldn't get to squeeze her and smooch my face against the arm chair with kisses until she screamed with laughter.
I wouldn't be able to lay next to her sweet little three year old, baby powder scented body and point to the little owl painted on her wall.
"Where's Mr. Owl Jill?"
She would turn her huge brown eyes towards Mr. Owl, smile, and point her delicate little index finger right at him.
"Daaaaaare."
She was a genius.

Time and Sissy began to take away the sting.

But the deepest most damaging pain has never fully gone away.
The ache, the throbbing. The fear of being alone, losing all your love bundled into one human being.

I live with it everyday.

I remember asking Grandma once if she would be able to come to my wedding if I married John Lennon in a few years.
She counted on her fingers and said, "Oh absolutely, it shouldn't be longer than 12 or 15 years from now. I'll be young enough to be there."
Yessssssssss! Groovy!
I was so excited! I thought Grandma would be waaaaaaaaay too old to come to my wedding.

After she died in her very early 50s, I never again thought about getting married.
Never dreamed about the white dress, the cake, the husband.
Never.

Years later I married a man I loved, to get him a green card.
Honestly, one of the best things I've ever done in my life.
He deserved to be a citizen.
He deserved not to live here in fear.
I wore a black Nicole Miller dress I returned the next day.
We got married on a Tuesday evening, in a judges office on Larkfield road.
I'll always love him. He's my best friend.
We didn't stay together because of stupid stuff. Mostly, he wanted to be in California, and I wouldn't and couldn't go.

I eventually opened my heart to a new relationship.
I've been with my beautiful, loving Old Man ever since.

I'll never get married again.
It has to do with Grandma.
That one is a recent epiphany.

One of the bonuses of having a kooky Grandma in hind site, is that she would bend rules regularly to appease me and satisfy my ever whim. She had no boundaries when it came to giving me what I wanted. Frankly, I wasn't a demanding kid when it came to things. I liked being at home with my family, and lived on a block with tons of friends, so I was pretty content most of the time.

A deep love of all kinds of music was instilled in me as early as I can remember.
The record player was always stacked with LPs ready to drop.
The radio always on.
In the summer of '70 I turned four and was already nuts for The Beatles. I would sit on the living room floor staring at those record covers for hours.
My mom, being a fantastic artist, would draw little symbols on all my 45s so I'd know which song to put on my record player.
For instance, she sketched a little wine glass on the 45 of "Spill the Wine (Dig that Girl)" by Eric Burdon and War or a little beach scene with an umbrella and waves on my Bobby Darin "Beyond the Sea" 45.
I couldn't read yet, but I was able to ascertain what I felt like grooving to at any given time thanks to my Mommy's brilliance.

In 1970 the planets were apparently aligned just so. The energy of the times just right.
A four year old Gia became completely and utterly obsessed with her beloved Beatles kinda new release "Hey Jude."
I'm talking playing it, listening to it, swaying to it, 15, 20 times in a row.

My poor parents must have been going insane.
Let's face it, I've always been a sound queen, so if it went up to 11, that's what I listened to it at.
Plus, belting it out at the top of my little, but already powerful lungs repeatedly, had to add to my parent's Beatles induced headaches on the reg.

Guess who was the one person that could listen to me march around my room, hairbrush in hand (as a mic) and performing "Hey Jude" till the cows came home?
Yes. Crazy, manic depressive, bipolar, Grandma,
She lived for that shit.

Mommy would take Grandma and me on errands. Maybe she didn't trust us alone together for longer periods of time. It's not the most far out speculation.
Consider how much trouble a manic depressive Grandma with the slightly hyper and certainly mischievous four year that adored kooky grandma could ultimately get into. Mommy made the right decision schlepping us with her.
Except for one little hitch......
I had to always have the car radio on, and "Hey Jude" was being played on NYS AM pop music stations A LOT!
Give or take every 10 minutes or so if you switched back and forth between the stations to avoid commercials. Which for a kid like me who only wanted to hear music, was a must.

"Mommmmmyyyyyyyyyyyy, press the button the man is talking now, peeeeeeeeeze!"

"Alright, alright the two of you, can you gimme one sec? I'm driving here."

Click.
...........don't make it bad, take a sad song and make it better.........

First I'd squeal like a piglet being murdered, at the top of my lungs, then bounce around the back bench like a seat-belt less lunatic. (What the fuck were seat-belts?)
Let it be Gia?
No way. I was off to the races.

"REMEMBAH TO LET EM INTA YOUAH HEART, THEN YOOOO CAN STAAAART TO MAKE IT BETTAH."

"Hey Jude" is an over seven minute song. And back in the late 60s, early 70's those NY stations played every note.
And me? I HAD to hear every single last one of them.
Grandma would grin like the lunatic she was and clap her hands along with her favorite little moppet's song and subsequent performance.

Mother, bless her soul. Would slightly smile and deal with it, breathing deeply through her nose, staring through the windshield proud and utterly frazzled all at once.

Eventually the song would end and I would smile broadly, feeling energized beyond words.
Yes, at 3 or 4 years old, and even earlier than that, music made me feel what I feel in my heart about music to this very day.

So, another song would come on and Mom would talk to Grandma about what we needed at the supermarket. I'd be singing along in the back, (albeit not as loud as if it was Hey Jude.)
And Grandma would turn towards me, her shining Irish face all smiles and say.
"Sing loud and proud baby, thattaaaaah girl, sing for Grandma and Mommy."
I would. Gladly.

God I loved my Grandma.

Mommy in the meantime navigated the already traffic snarled Long Island streets and avenues.
This was before there was a Stop n Shop on every corner, so Mommy had to travel quite a ways from our hidden little hamlet of Centerport to get to the supermarket, or mall, or the beauty parlor for that matter.
"Mommmmmyyyyyyyyy, press the button the man is talking again, peeeeeeeeeze!"

"Gia Baby, we're almost at the store, relax."

"Oh fuhgodsakes Kathy, press the button for her, we're not there yet!"

Click
........you were made to, go out and get her......

Not making this up.

Me: "THE MINUTE YOOOO LETTA UNDAH YOUR SKIN....."

Mommy: "Oh great. We are literally pulling into a parking space right now Mom! I want to get this shopping done already. Gia, I need to turn off the car, now the radio is going off."

And I would. Right up to the very last fading NAH NAH NAAAAAAAH.
I had the "Judey, Judey, Judey, Judey wooooow-wooooow scream down pat.
Volume at eleven, bouncing on the back bench of a car with no seat belts, no air conditioning and a slightly spiderweb cracked front windshield (that was caused by my noggin hitting said windshield when my Mom's strong arm across the chest didn't work in lieu of missing seat belts.)
And once the last NAH, NAH, NAH NAH, faded, Grandma would clap, and click off the radio and pull me out of the back.
"Now let's go shop, Whaddaya say girls?"
The three of us would carry on with the errands and we always got them done.

My faith in God has waned quite a bit over the years. I blame it all on Catholicism. Ironic I know. The very thing that turned me onto God, systematically broke down any faith I had. I've never felt so cheated by any institution as I have with the Catholic church. The greed. The judgement. The intolerance, elitism, double standards, hatred of gays, disrespect of women. Twisting the supposed words of a peaceful, hippyish, probably married man, who seemed to maybe have conversations with God. Not just twisting the words, but leaving out key passages that bothered the corrupt money grubbing leaders of the church, because the words took away their riches, their land holdings, their power.
Then as time progressed, those church leaders preaching chasteness and celibacy, used their power, intimidation and mind games to rape the children who held them in such high esteem.
And not one or two of them. Hell, not even hundreds of the . Thousands of them!
And those evil, pompous, fuckers covered it up, made excuses and moved the priests around that committed those heinous crimes.
All that respect for the priests I had growing up. Wanting to get on their good side. Assuming they were closer to God than me or anyone for that matter.
All the respect.
It was and is horseshit.
And I'm pissed as hell at Catholicism, because way back when when I had deep loving faith in SOMETHING, it seemed prayer and faith calmed me. My thoughts didn't race as much. I had a unwavering belief that I was here for a reason. That I made a difference, because God was beside me. Maybe even Jesus was his son and he was near me. I didn't even fear death.
Then because I saw what Catholicism had gotten away with all those years. The lies upon more lies. I stopped believing. I stopped praying. I stopped thinking I was here for a reason. How can I matter if God doesn't exists? Who the fuck am I praying to? What is prayer for that matter? Any peace I experienced from this shit called prayer, was me just talking to myself.

Fuck.

As I stated much earlier, I've hit a emotional wall going about 140 mph.
I'm spent. Empty. Constantly on the edge of tears. That awful lump that never leaves my throat, goes on to give me stomach aches.
It sucks. I don't know how else to explain it.
I have an amazing support system.
Help through modern pharmaceuticals.
But nothing's helping. It's just going to have to run it's course. It's just going to take time. This too shall pass. I just wish it wasn't taking so long.

Well, I'm not a very patient person. So I'm looking for something to help speed up the process. And let me tell you, I'm not ready to be strapped to a table like Grandma and get zapped, even though it's much more humane nowadays.
Nuh uh. No thanks. Not quite there yet.

So, I'm going back to basics and giving this prayer thing a shot.
I don't always bless myself before and after like I use to almost compulsively when I was a kid.
I also don't clasp my hands together in prayer position, like I did back then.
(I believed with all my heart, the harder you squeezed your hands together, the better chance God or Jesus heard you.)

Now, I just speak out loud, in the car asking for peace and healing. I pray for everyone I love, I pray for the whole world to get better.
So it's almost like meditation, as it's extremely repetitive almost like a mantra.
My thoughts don't calm, so that sucks. And there's an excellent chance I'm just talking into the air ducts of my car, but I'm trying and I'm not just asking "him(?)" for stuff for me.
Not just Gia, Gia, Gia.
So that's something.
Maybe a step in the right direction.

But see, I'm still Gia, and sometimes when I'm really, really sad? I pull the car over and get a little loud with the air ducts or "him(?)".
I start yelling that I need a mother fucking sign that someone is listening to me.
C'mon, throw me a bone!! Tell you what, God's too busy? What about you Grandma?
I was bestowed these great, insane mental genetics from you.
It's been a long time, and I still can't talk about you without tearing up.
I can't think about you to this day without shaking a little.
I'm still so fucked up because you left me when I was eight.
I wanted to commit suicide at eight years old!! It doesn't get much darker than that.
Writing this thing has me dry heaving at certain intervals.
I just want a tiny glimmer of a speck of something that can tell me this whole thing has some kind of meaning.
That I might feel better someday.

Then I think, who the fuck am I to demand anything like that? Why do I deserve reassurance? I've done some pretty shitty things in my life.
I haven't directly killed anyone or anything.
But, I've done things that I knew would hurt people emotionally and did them anyway.
Selfish shit. Uncaring unthinking shit. Stuff I wish I could go back and change. Change in a big way.
So who the fuck am I to be given a sign that will make poor little me feel better?
I am nobody.

But I'm still asking.
Pleading really.

My best friend is a three year old living angel I spend most my days with. She is exquisitely beautiful. All pink pursed lips. Caramel and blond streaked curls. Light greenish eyes highlighted by eyelashes that curl up and touch her delicate eyebrows.
She's a gorgeous little girl. No doubt. No argument. Just a fact.
Lemme tell you a little something about my petite best friend. As GORGEOUS as she is? She has a heart and personality that eclipses her physical beauty.
She is so intrinsically kind, giving and loving, it just melts your heart.
She glows with love and purity. She is sight to behold. She's a young person who I guarantee is going to somehow make this world a better place someday. Directly through her presence. I'm putting this out there right now. You read it here first. She's going to change the world.

I have the honor of taking and picking her up from school every M,W,F.
I miss her when she's at school, but she practices her letters and numbers and creates beautiful artwork as well, so I know it's good for her that her Mama makes me share her with other kids and adult teachers.

I marvel at the way she sits in her seat in the back of my Mini Cooper making small talk and astute observations.
She babbles away about the world around her with no filter, pointing out the beauty that races by her as she gazes out the back window.

"The sky is more bluer than yesterday Gia. It also has more puffy clouds. It makes me more happier that the clouds float in the bluer sky. Maybe that means the flowers will be coming soon. We need more flowers. Yellow and purple ones, but pink ones are my favorites. I can see the trees have seeds on them now, that means the leaves will come back soon and we can go swimming at the beach or in the pool. I'll bring my mermaid dolls and they will keep me safe, because their hair is long and they have fins instead of legs.........."

I can listen to her all day. Everything she says makes perfect sense.
It's all pure and lovely and coherent.

The little angel is also a big music lover.
She was recently completely potty trained, but honestly? My poor little buddy takes poops the size and shape of meatballs. You can not believe what comes out if that cute little butt!
It's to the point where it makes her uncomfortable and a little nervous to poop.
She'll squeeze her little eyes together really tight, her face bright red.
"Gia, I'm trying, but the poop feels so stuck!"
I rub her tummy and back and tell her to relax and don't try so hard.
I make her drink tons of water during the day to avoid the poop time blues.

Then, one day the two of us had a brilliant idea! Let's sing the alphabet as many times as it takes until the poop comes!
So, I sit on the floor in front of her in the bathroom and we croon the ABCs sometimes four times in a row.
Well be on the fifth go around, usually around "h" and she'll exclaim,
"Wait!!!!! Ssssshhhhhh no more ABCs, poops coming!"
And damn if there isn't the sweetest sounding plop you've ever heard.
"The water splashed my booty butt on that one Gia!"
I stifle the biggest laugh, wipe her up and we flush the toilet, singing, in unison,
"Bye, bye poop, AND DONT COME BACK!!"

She sings "Let it Go" from Frozen at the top of her lungs, and goddamn if she doesn't sing right on key! It's pretty amazing.
You haven't lived until you've heard a three year old sing, on key, the lyrics:
"My power flurries through the air into the ground
My soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around
And one thought crystallizes like an icy blast
I'm never going back, the past is in the past!!!!!"

It's a Goddamn trip.

Usually, I'll put the Disney Sirius/xm radio channel on in the car to and from her school. They play a good mix of Disney movie tunes, and pop geared to younger kids (think One Direction and Selena Gomez.)

A couple of days ago I had my iPod plugged into my stereo. The way I've been feeling, I've been trying to sing a lot and relish some of my old faves that I have queued up on the old iPod.

It was finally time to pick up my buddy from school, so we walked back to the car and I strapped her in the back car seat and off we went.

"Eh-hem Gia (yup, she says eh-hem), could you put on Disney music peeeeeeeeeeeeze?"
No problem the peanut gets anything she wants from me.

So I turn on the radio and instead of Radio Disney, I hear the first jaunty guitar chords of Rocky Raccoon..
See, the radio was set to iPod, not satellite.

I'm just about to unplug it, when from the backseat, the little precious sweetheart, exclaimed exuberantly,
"Noooooooooo! What is dis song Gia? I yike it. Can you keep, it on?"

I reach back (my eyes still on the road) and extend my balled up fist towards her.

"Knuckle bump me Hotstuff! This song rocks." I say proudly.

I feel her tiny fist context with mine.
"Damn Skippy." she responds nonchalantly.
(I've really got to start being more careful about using my verbal affirmations around her.)

Rocky ends before we get halfway home.
"AGAIN GIA AGAINAGAINAGAIN!"
I quickly switch the iPod to song repeat.
"Well somewhere out the black mountain hills of Dakota, there lived a young boy named Rocky Racoooooonah....."
My angel is clapping and kicking her feet like a maniac.
She starts to sing every last word of every line of the song.
Guuuyyyyyyy
Eyyyyyye.
Boooy.
Salooooooon.

I'm singing right along with her.
She's such a fast learner.

We pull up to her house. I edge my way up the driveway.
"Oh, ooooooh Gia." I hear, tearfully from the backseat.
I slam on the brakes and spin around like a banshee.
"What's the matter precious baby? Are you okay?"
Her round, pink cheeks are shiny with tears, and she starts to do that crying and talking thing at the same time that sounds like a mixture of a demented case of the hiccups and a stutter.

"It's, (hic) that I I I, (hic) love the Rocky song (hic, hic) so much I II wwwwwant to drive around summ-oah (hic) and sing it wif (hic) youuuuuuuuuu! Peeeeeeeeeez!"

I'm dumbfounded and relieved all at once.

"Baby girl, I answer in my most soothing voice, "we can drive around and listen to it as many times as you want, it's okay. Don't cry little one."

The tears dry up immediately.

"Like even 30 hundred tooooooiiiiiiiiiiimes?"

"Yup like 30 hundred times."

So, I pull out of the driveway and we cruise the streets of Syosset with Rocky Raccoon on replay over and over.
"Sing it loud and proud peanut!" I yell toward the backseat.
She responds by singing even louder, right on key.
It's probably about a good 45 minutes later, Rocky on repeat the whole time, that I realize I don't hear my best friend singing along anymore.
I glance into the rear view to see her little curls covering her eyes shut tight, her head tilted to the side, breathing deeply and in and out in and out.

I turn down Rocky and pull the car over towards a sidewalk and park under a tree.

And now it's me with the tears streaming down my cheeks.
All the hurt I've been feeling front and center in my heart. All the regret, embarrassment. All the hopelessness.
I watch my best friend sleep so,peacefully, me sobbing quietly as to not wake her.

And just like that, I hear it in my head.
So loud it's like Rocky Raccoon or Hey Jude turned to eleven.
No voice I recognize in particular.
Just the message.
Loud and clear.

"You wanted a fucking sign? Well you got it Honey. Now keep up with the praying, or meditating or talking to the air ducts, because I held up my end of the bargain, and if you hold up yours, I promise this too shall pass."

And on a tree lined street, with the Beatle loving angel safely asleep behind me, I proclaim out loud, but not too loud to wake her.